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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23927332">Happy Trails</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColetheWolf/pseuds/ColetheWolf'>ColetheWolf</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Smut Bomb: April 2020 [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Breeding, Fucked Up, Hypnosis, Hypnotism, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mind Break, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Multiple Orgasms, Murder, Riding, Rough Oral Sex, Serial Killer Derek Hale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:35:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,848</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23927332</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColetheWolf/pseuds/ColetheWolf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Men walk into the woods and cross paths with a mysterious, handsome stranger, who takes control of their minds, fucks, and makes them disappear forever.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Derek Hale/Jackson Whittemore, Derek Hale/Jordan Parrish, Derek Hale/Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Theo Raeken, Liam Dunbar/Derek Hale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Smut Bomb: April 2020 [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724794</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>162</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Happy Trails</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I was kind of inspired by AHS. Not any season in particular, just the overall fucked up aspect of it. This is a bit different than how I normally write. I wanted to do a short, drabble-like style with different "missing persons" cases. </p><p>WARNING: This is tagged RAPE/NON-CON due to the fact that Derek takes control of people's minds and fucks them.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Happy Trails</span>
</p><p>
  <span>✖</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the outskirts of Beacon Hills, deep in the woods, there was an old abandoned house. It had once been home to a large family, who had kept to themselves for the most part. Nobody knew their names or what they did, which is why nobody cared when the house burned to the ground in a terrible fire. The family who had occupied the house hadn’t fared too well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all died—all except for one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, there were always rumors about the old scorched house in the woods. Some said that it was haunted by the ghosts of the family that once lived in it. Some said it was a portal to the underworld. Some said it was where witches came together to practice their craft. But none of that was true. The reality was that one lone survivor of the house’s fiery end still occupied the house, patiently awaiting for an opportunity to walk past his house on the jogger’s trail that cut through his front yard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, for the large majority of Beacon Hills locals, the old house was never at the forefront of anybody’s minds. It was empty—that was their collectively ruling. Any tall-tales from the mouths of spooked children, raving about spotting a “shadowy figure” moping around the inside of the house, were just that—</span>
  <em>
    <span>tall-tales. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There were, however, a handful of others who knew that the house was inhabited by a handsome, sullen, and silent man. They knew, because they met him. Unfortunately for them, none of the lucky ex-Beacon Hills locals got to ever tell the story of their encounters because meeting the mysterious man of the house meant never getting seen or heard from again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>✖ Stiles Stilinski ✖</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first victim had been a wild college student named Stiles, who was always looking for something interesting to capture within the four-corners of a polaroid. He was an insufferable photography major at Beacon Hills University. He liked over-steeped tea, long-sleeved flannel shirts that were rolled up to the bend of his arm, the soft wind in his brown hair, and exploring places he knew he ought not to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles snapped the fifteenth polaroid since his stepping into the woods on the outskirts of town, rounding a large mossy tree, landing in front of the ruins of what was probably once a nice family home. He smiled and held up his camera, looking through the lens, shifting his weight on the heels of his sneakers, tilting around to get the right angle—and then snapped a picture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as Stiles lowered the camera from his face, he found himself face-to-face with an undeniably handsome stranger. One look into the stranger’s murky, poisonous eyes, Stiles’ mind squashed into brainless mush. His eyes went hazy and a sloppy smile tugged feebly at the corner of his lips. He dropped his camera down to the dirt, hearing it smash against a rock—but he no longer cared about that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tongue lolled out of his mouth and he fell down to his knees. And for the next </span>
  <em>
    <span>four</span>
  </em>
  <span> hours of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>last</span>
  </em>
  <span> hours of his life, he gagged and choked and sputtered sloppily around the stranger’s fat cock, bobbing his head around wildly, tonguing at the cockhead, swallowing down gasps of breath and moans for more. Stiles let the stranger take his lax face into his hands and skullfuck him stupid, pouring hot cum down his throat—down, down, down, until he collapsed onto the weeded woodland floor, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>✖ Jackson Whittemore ✖</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second victim was a model named Jackson, who wore his arrogance on his sleek muscles. He was the son of the city’s most famed and ruthless district attorney, but whilst his father’s job kept his father in the courtroom, Jackson’s modelling took him to prime photoshoot real estate—graffitied alleyways, rose gardens, foggy shores, and the woods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>woods</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson posed, shifting his lean stature around into any position that this high-profile photographer called out to him. He was a master at taking directions. He knew how to work his body. He knew how to get the best shots. His photographer’s shouts of direction offered barely anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lean to your right, give me—coy. Swivel. Bend. Give me—cocky. Give me—fierce. Give me—</span>
  <em>
    <span>fear.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson missed one of his cues. He fell out of position and scoffed, rolling his eyes, crossing his arms. And when his photographer asked what the hell he was doing, Jackson just pointed to a patch of dry grass behind where his photographer was standing. And there, in the grass, was a mysterious, sulky looking man, who could have probably been a model too, had his family not perished. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought this was a closed set.” Jackson bit with a sneer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as his photographer turned around to catch a glimpse at what Jackson was talking about, the poor man’s neck snapped and he fell to the ground. Jackson swore loudly, terrified— cautiously stepping backwards, stumbling over branches and stones, right until his back was pressed up against the back of a large tree trunk. And then his eyes went glossy, his brain short circuited, and he grinned stupidly at the approaching stranger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A videotape was delivered to the Beacon Hills Police Department. Once they hit play, they watched in shock as Jackson Whittemore, the missing district attorney’s son, flickered in frame. It started with a close up on Jackson’s face as he fiddled around with the camera. His eyes didn’t look right. He wasn’t all there. Then Jackson took clumsy steps backwards, letting his entire body come into frame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackson was completely naked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Jackson Whittemore. And I’m a filthy fucking cumslut.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The newly formed crowd in the police station watched as Jackson squatted down and slid his tight, virgin ass onto a firm dildo, and then quickly began to bounce up and down. They watched as Jackson moaned and shook. His body quivered. His freckled cheeks were beet red. His perfectly coiffed blond hair was no longer perfect. He fucked himself harder and harder, for hours and hours—the tape running longer than five hours—Jackson never once tiring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the whole police department watched, their own cocks in their hands, slowly jerking off to the video. Their eyes glossed over, dopey grins half-cocked on their faces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>✖ Liam Dunbar ✖</span>
</p><p>The third victim was a punk skater named Liam, who didn’t follow rules. He was always getting in trouble with the law, always getting a “free” ride back to his mother and father in the back of a cop car. But the cops always seemed to go easy on him, forgoing the decision to toss him in a cell for a couple nights to straighten him out, for no reason other than his parents were good, kind people, who definitely wouldn’t deserve the embarrassment of posting bail. </p><p>
  <span>But Liam liked to kick it with his fellow good-for-nothing friends for some chill drinking and smoking. And with the police department keeping careful eye on all of Liam’s usual nighttime hangout spots, Liam ventured out beyond the department’s usual scope. Nobody would dare hangout in the dark woods. Nobody. Except for Liam and his friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small bonfire was in the middle of a small clearing, though shadows of the surrounding trees flickered around in a disorienting fashion thanks to the dancing flame. Liam and his friends sat around on rocks, fallen logs, and a couple old blankets they brought with them. They downed bottles of beer and passed out a couple blunts—laughing at nonsensical blather and crude jokes, rocking out to the blaring sound of rock music that poured out of their cheap boombox. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liam excused himself to take a leak and when he came back to the clearing, he found a mysterious man sitting on the rock that he had been previously sitting on. All of his other friends were invested in their own drunken conversations. Liam stumbled over to the stranger and knocked him on the shoulder, watching as the stranger’s attractive face turned around to look up at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as he met the stranger’s cold eyes, watching the way that the reflection of the bonfire’s flames dancing around in the man’s green irises, Liam’s body relaxed. His shoulders slouched. His head went fuzzy. His cock twitched hard in the confines of his sagged jeans. He swayed around drunkenly. And a cocky smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next thing Liam knew, he had the mysterious stranger on his back, pants off, legs up in the air, and Liam railed into the man’s tight ass—hard and rough, still taking time to swallow down gulps of his beer as his hips pounded into the stranger’s body. The stranger moaned and whimpered and pulled at the shirt and jacket that Liam still had on. But Liam just kept going, kept pounding, staring down to where his own cock was spilled out from the waistband of his sagged jeans and boxers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was so much smoke from the raging bonfire that it clouded everybody’s senses and vision. The dancing flames strobed off the layer of smoke and sent a disorienting flutter of light around. Rock music blared even louder. Liam fucked harder. Everybody was still caught up in their own slurred and sleepy conversations, nobody paying much attention to things that might have felt out of place otherwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liam fucked the stranger for hours. Liam’s friends partied around him, occasionally engaging in brief conversation with him as he railed the hot stranger. But when afternoon came around the next day, bonfire dead, empty beer bottles scattered, all of Liam’s friends awoke to find that he was gone. And only some of them vaguely remembered seeing Liam fucking a dude—though they all chalked it up to a drunken dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>✖ Scott McCall ✖</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fourth victim was a newlywed named Scott, who was probably one of the most cheerful, happy-go-lucky guys anybody could’ve ever met. He was pure. He was morally just. He was truthful. He would never do anything to hurt the ones that he loved, which is why his new wife—Allison—loved him so much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A morning jog was something that Scott loved doing, even before he got married. But taking the morning to get his heartbeat racing on a jog with his wife was somehow even better. And with their newlywed home not more than a few miles away from the entrance to the woodlands, Scott had decided that venturing into the woods for a run would be fun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A good fifteen minutes of running, Scott and Allison came by a rickety old house. It caught their attention, but not for the reason that it did for other locals. Scott and his wife had just moved to the city. They didn’t know about the legends. They did, however, know how thirsty they were from a nonstop fifteen minute jog, and Allison was lucky enough to catch sight of a hose faucet by the front porch of the old house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go fill up our water bottles.” Allison said, kissing Scott on the cheek. “You take a rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott watched as Allison walked up to the front of the house. He ran his fingers through his moppy hair and looked up to the sky, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment as he took in the fresh air and the sound of birds chirping their morning away. He opened his eyes and then turned around to get a better feel for the surroundings, finding himself face-to-face with a total stranger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Holy—</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Scott started, but immediately lost every fiber of his innocent soul to the stranger’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple minutes later, Allison set off back to where she had left her husband waiting. She had two newly refilled water bottles in her hands. As she walked around, calling out Scott’s name, she stumbled over patches of thick weeds and shallow ditches, unable to figure out where Scott had wandered off. She knew that she had had her eyes on him not more than a couple minutes prior, but seemed to disappear just as quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Allison rounded one of the thick mossy trees, gasping out in terror. The water bottles dropped out of her hands and cracked against the ground. She covered her mouth, eyes widened and teary with shock from the sight that played out before her—there, a couple of feet away, on the crunchy leaves that littered the woodlands’ floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott was pressed down into the wooded ground—face down, ass hiked up into the air and repeatedly pulled back to meet the brutal thrusts from a sullen, bearded stranger. The stranger’s fingers were pressed harshly into the sides of Scott’s waist. Scott’s loose jogging shorts were pulled down over the curve of his thick, tanned ass—left with nothing but the straps of his black jockstrap covering up his now non-existent modesty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stranger’s thrusts were savage. His massive cock hammered into Scott’s virgin hole with violently brutal slaps that echoed through the peaceful landscape. Scott’s fucked out body remained entirely motionless, all except for the way that his body was pitched forward to the rhythm of the thrusts that railed into him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the while, Scott’s face was fucked out. His eyes were half-lidded and glazed over, completely unresponsive to even the slightest bit of movement. He didn’t even look up to meet his own wife’s facial expression of horror. At the same time, his mouth hung open with a sloppy half-grin spread across his face, drooling out to the dirt ground. A low, monotonous groan eased out of Scott’s throat, but he was lost in a stupor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allison’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and she collapsed—dead. Scott just stared on—past his wife’s collapsed body, past the woodlands behind her motionless form, past the life he led before taking his morning jog. His hand gave a feeble grasp at some of the leaves on the ground, but fell lax. His body rocked back and forth. His lungs gave one last exhale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His wedding band glittered in the sunlight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>✖ Theo Raeken ✖</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fifth victim was a young drifter named Theo, who had no parents. Even though he was alone in the world, he still tried to keep things as stable as things could be. He still attended school and did all of his work. He took up odd jobs here-and-there to make a couple bucks for himself. During the day, Theo juggled school and finding dinner. At night, he hopped into his black pickup truck and figured out where he was gonna park for a night’s sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Theo’s nighttime parking spot changed around every couple of days, due to the fact that the usual police department patrol squad liked to hassle him for loitering and hanging out in his truck. Apparently, it made people uncomfortable. And so Theo hopped around from parking lots, to alleyways, to empty construction sites—parking where he could for the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Theo took an off road which headed into the woods. Those were empty and away from the patrol cars’ usual routes. And after a couple of minutes driving down the bumpy, heavily shadowed gravel road, Theo came up to the old abandoned house that he had heard so much about—especially during Halloween festivities. But to him, abandoned meant no interruptions. It meant a good night’s sleep. No police officers banging on his truck’s cab’s window with the blunt end of their flashlight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Theo was woken in the middle of the night to the sound of somebody rapping their knuckles against the driverside window of his truck—typical. He groaned groggily, trying to bury his head further into his pillow. The police never stopped. They always found him. Except, it wasn’t the police. And after trying to ignore the repeated knocks at his window, Theo finally popped up to see which asshole deputy it was this time—only to find his brain sucked out of his head, eyes drawing half-closed, and his mouth falling slack as he stared into the handsome face of a total stranger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple minutes later, Theo was giggling out into the silent air of the woodlands, bouncing around on the stranger’s fat cock that stretched him open so good—all in the bed of his own pickup truck. Theo’s thick thighs slapped furiously as they slammed down in time to meet the stranger’s dominating upward thrusts. But it felt so good. Theo had never been fucked before and he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t even stop to think about what was happening. He belonged to the stranger now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Theo was only half-clothed—wearing nothing but the t-shirt that he has settled into for slumber and a pair of socks. His boxer briefs had been torn off of his body and tossed off to the side of where his truck was parked—which is where they would remain and degrade for the years and years to come as nobody would come looking for a known drifter. The chilled night’s air breezed across Theo’s naked skin, but had no effect on him. He didn’t shiver. He just smiled stupidly, gazing off into the far distance, bouncing up and down in the stranger’s lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Theo rode the stranger for hours. He bounced hard—up and down—slamming down and grinding down, feeling the stranger’s thick rod pound into his prostate. Theo’s untouched hard cock bobbed around in the open air. For hours he continued on, orgasming more times than anybody would have been willing to count. The bed of his pickup truck was spattered with his excessive loads and the frontside of his shirt was soaked with all of the drool that had oozed out of his slack mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only when the moon sank and the sun rose did Theo’s movement falter. His fucked out body continued to move like he was being puppeteered, desperate to feel the kind of pleasure that he had felt for hours and hours on end. But as the sun drew higher in the sky, Theo’s energy waned. His eyes couldn’t focus on anything. He was still smiling dopily. But his body was now soaked in sweat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At 11 o’clock, Theo couldn’t even move anymore. So the stranger did all of the work, using Theo like a toy, pulling him up and back down onto his still hard cock. Theo’s head just lulled back to rest against the stranger’s chest, swaying around without his say so. He orgasmed again—this time dry, like the dozens of other times he had had an orgasm fucked out of him throughout the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the clock struck noon and the sun hit the highest point in the sky, Theo’s glassy eyes seemed to widen in shock and he capsized forward—crashing down into the metal bed of his truck, covered in cum, soaked in sweat, babbling nonsense, with his empty hole twitching desperately until he stopped moving entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>✖ Jordan Parrish ✖</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the sixth victim was a local police deputy named Jordan, who respected the badge more than he respected himself. His intentions were good, though. All he wanted to do was keep Beacon Hills out of harm’s way. If ever he saw something amiss, he was the first one to call it out and would search tirelessly to find some kind of remedy. None of the other deputies took their job as seriously, but Parrish was fine being the lone soldier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody else seemed to care much about the fact that there had been five unsolved missing person cases in the city, which stretched over the past couple years. The majority of the department chalked the disappearances up to people moving due to how boring it was to live in Beacon Hills, but Parrish didn’t think so. He felt something stir in his bones. There was something wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After months of painstaking research and work, Parrish landed himself in the stretch of woods on the outskirts of the city. There was an old abandoned house up there—Parrish knew as much—and figured that the area in question matched up to where a young missing punk kid had been last seen by his drunken friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Parrish parked his patrol car and stepped out onto the grassy ground. Things seemed calm, but in his head—calm meant dangerous. He kept his eyes peeled, gun drawn dramatically, looking around with precise shifts of his stance—waiting for something to catch his attention. He hoped that he could find something—anything, really—that could help solve the missing persons cases. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After searching the old abandoned house and the surrounding grounds, coming up short with no clues, Parrish walked back to his patrol car. As he rounded the front hood, reaching out to open the driver’s side door, Parrish caught a glimpse of a reflection of a sulky, attractive man standing directly behind him. His body shivered with a mix of terror and excitement, motioning to spin around and catch the perp, but then Parrish’s eyes locked onto the reflection of the stranger’s shadowed eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Parrish ended up flipped up onto the hood of his own patrol car, handcuffed, legs up over his head—tight hole stretched open on the stranger’s massive cock. The patrol car swayed around under the power of the stranger’s rapid thrusts, as did Parrish’s muscular body. His beefy chest wobbled underneath the tightness of his deputy uniform shirt. All the while, his legs flopped around in the air, outstretched for the world to see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back at the station, deputies gathered around one of the monitors in the sheriff’s office— tuned into Parrish’ dashcam. It flickered in grainy black and white, but remained clear enough to see what was happening out there in the woods, at that abandoned old house. At first, panic flooded the deputies’ bodies, watching one of their own like that, but in seconds, their minds drained into mush—their mouths drew slack and they took their own cocks out of their uniform trousers, setting a shared speed and rhythm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They watched as Parrish was flipped around and bent over the hood of his patrol car and fucked into by a tall, muscular, broodingly handsome stranger. Parrish’s dazed, sloppily cumdrunk gleeful expression flickered prominently on the sheriff’s monitor screen. They watched the stranger grab at the back of Parrish’ hair, tugging his lax head upward. They watched the dashcam sway around, as if on unsteady ground, thanks to the brutality of the stranger’s thrusts jostling the patrol car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they watched as Parrish’s eyes widened and his slack mouth drew wide in a silent scream as the stranger’s thrusts halted—clearly unloading hot and wet into Parrish’s hole. And as Parrish collapsed down onto the hood of the patrol car—the deputies shot off their orgasms, spattering down across the sheriff’s desk and monitor screen, then mindlessly tucked themselves back into their uniforms and switched off the monitor, going about the rest of their day—completely unaware of what had just happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>✖</span><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading! I appreciate comments, critiques, and suggestions! Also kudos! Thanks! :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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